


Peace in our time

by notvega



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But mostly war focused, F/F, F/M, Featuring excerpts from the early days, First War with Voldemort, Loads of characters making the occasional guest appearance, M/M, Mostly will be referenced to external oneshots, Some Romance, Unsurprisingly depressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22150675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notvega/pseuds/notvega
Summary: They're trying, Lily tells herself. It may look like everything's gone to hell, but they can't stop now. They're trying, and Moody knows what he's doing, and Dumbledore would never allow them to lose.It's 1979, and the First Wizarding War is in full swing. Locked in a fight of brutality, deception, and shifting loyalties, the foot soldiers of the Order of the Phoenix are just trying to make it another day, whilst in the shadow, plans are made and plots unraveled to make every last one of them a piece in a game none of them agreed to play.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Kudos: 8





	Peace in our time

***

March 1979

***

Peter dashes through the rows of dark-robed witches and wizards - mostly wizards - , thanking Merlin for the unremarkableness of a solitary rat on Knockturn Alley. He’s never liked this part, the scurrying along dirty alleys, only just avoiding puddles of disgusting water. Everything smells and he simply cannot avoid touching the puddles. From this close, any street would look disgusting, but Knockturn especially always gives him an upset stomach that sticks around after changing back. 

He settles into a dark spot by the wall of a closed-up shop, half-hidden behind discarded wood and other garbage. Moments like these would be where having an eidetic memory like James would come in handy, but given as he’s not James, he has to do his job the old-fashioned way and simply scan the faces as well as he can and hope for the best.

The crowd is fired up, with none of the hush-hush these rallies used to have only some months ago. They know the Ministry isn’t coming to shut them down or arrest them, not on Knockturn where they have a dozen sketchy, but sympathetic, shop owners hooked up to the underground flea network to turn to, and the support of every bystander that values their lives, not to mention the seedier parts of the street willing to play dirty and sabotage the Aurors just for the hell of it. 

Yes, people are loud and showing their faces, but Peter knows it’s not them he wants to identify, it’s the quiet ones at the corners, who are scouting the area, ready to warn their Lord if he should apparate into any sort of danger and to root out spies - spies like him. He backs further toward the dingy wall of the shop and fidgets. Pretty in character for a rat, he thinks, and for some reason, wants to laugh hysterically.

He has a good visual on two of the corner guards, but he knows there are four and on missions like these, he always feels like one of them is just about to tear away his hiding spot and grab him by the tail. The two he can see have their hoods up and pulled into their face. One of them, he’s pretty sure he’s seen before. Just a little shorter than the other, with slight shoulders and black hair that stubbornly pokes out from under the rough fabric of the hood. From the description, Sirius thinks that’s his cousin, the scary one. Bellatrix. They can’t be sure though, and Meadowes is unwilling to do anything on the basis of testimony which even James and Remus know is more than a little emotionally weighted. 

The other one he can see looks just as nervous as Peter himself, hands buried in the pockets of the heavy cloak, no doubt clutching a wand as he paces two steps one way, then the other. Tall and broad, he moves with a limp, and if Peter’s not mistaken, a slight stoop as well. Probably older, then. He makes a note of that. 

It’s not enough. They need him to come up with something tangible, to pull his weight. James would never say it, but Peter knows they think of him as more of a burden, too scared to take the necessary risk to turn up something of real note. Shaking like a leaf, he pokes a tiny fraction of his nose out toward to see more, then immediately retreats when he is momentarily blinded by a flash of light.

He should be used to this by now, the shuffling and lowered voices, the brightness of the lights accompanying their leader’s arrival. He’s never looked directly at Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, out of a partly irrational fear that making eye contact will allow the Dark wizard to identify him as an animagus and then, he’ll have about three seconds before he joins the other dubious stains on the wall.

The older corner guard is standing rigidly tall now, and his wand is out. Peter pokes his nose out just a little further, grateful for the cloudy day and the shadows of all the robed people in the street. The man’s other hand is hanging at his side, and although it’s mostly obscured by the folds of his robes, Peter sees for just a moment the unmistakable sheen of silver. A knife. McKinnon says all Death Eaters carry them. He’s not totally sure why. What can you do with a knife that you can’t with a wand after all?

Today though, is a day he doesn’t have to wait for the crowds to disperse, because they have a plan. The crowd’s rapt attention is on the speaker, but Peter tunes him out as he scurries out from his hiding place, sticking close to the walls just in case. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the other corner guards, their hoods pulled low over their faces. In a moment of daring, he crosses the alley to catch a better look at them, and is rewarded with a dark look - and a face he recognises, from somewhere. Filing it away to consider later, he keeps running toward where Knockturn meets Diagon Alley.

“THE CHANGE THAT IS TO COME,” the magically amplified voice enunciates, and the entire alley has gone so silent Peter can no longer ignore it. He stops in his tracks. “WILL RENDER ALL OUR SQUABBLES WITH THE MINISTRY INSIGNIFICANT.”

That’s a new tune, Peter thinks, but he doesn’t have time. He’s running faster now, and the corner is mercifully close. He dashes around it and into the vacant store they’ve been renting out. Its proximity to Knockturn Alley made the place troublesome to sell for the former occupant when she left for Argentina, so with some magical combination of Aspen’s work contacts and Meadowes’ limitless funds, they managed to buy it and keep the sale off the books.

The ground floor windows are nailed shut and the tiny hole in the wall he usually uses is too small for anything bigger than himself (Sirius teases that he’ll have to watch his desserts, else he’ll be stuck on the street. Peter doesn’t really find it funny.). There’s only one room on the ground floor, with a screen full of holes splitting it in two a sales area and a backroom. Everything is run down, thick layers of dust covering the tables. Changing back, he immediately has to suppress the intense urge to vomit. 

“Took you long enough, Wormy,” James calls out as he skips lightly down the stairs. “Remember, we got the pensieve. No need to spend ages memorising.”

“Sorry, Prongs,” he offers hurriedly and wraps himself in the cloak he discarded earlier. 

But James has already turned away to look back up the stairs. “Oy, McKinnon, when can we get this place a little cleaned up? It’s disgusting, and I say that as someone who’s been to Sirius’ more than once.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate that thoroughly unsurprising insight into Black’s habits,” the Auror’s voice sounds down the stairs, “but we can’t. Not until Meadowes gives the go-ahead. It’s her head on the chopping block if someone catches us out.”

“Right.” James sounds a little skeptical now, as he always does when they discuss Moody’s second. 

McKinnon doesn’t seem inclined to comment. “Come on, Potter. Get over your fetish for clean floors and help me turn these little beauties into chameleons before it’s too late.”

Hands in the pockets of his jeans, James trudges up the stairs. Peter follows, unsure what else to do. Hardly less desolate than the ground floor, the room they enter is empty except for a single table that’s seen better days. On it, there’s three little blocks of grey putty, about two inches long each. He remembers Dearborn demonstrating their use the week before. The tall man still scares the wits out of him every time he silently appears in a doorway and just stares until someone notices him.

“Make yourself useful, Pettigrew,” McKinnon calls him out of his jumbled thoughts. “Open the window. Stay close to the wall.”

He does so, hoping to Merlin they’ve thought this all through. It seems dangerous, entirely too much so, but he’s always too cautious, has been ever since they got his dad, so he keeps his mouth shut. They wouldn’t listen anyway.

“Anything different today from the previous ones?” McKinnon asks, her tone conversational. Leaning against the wall with her leather jacket and boots, she’s the definition of cool. No wonder Sirius has a thing for her. Plus, she’s blonde and entirely out of his reach. That always helps.

“No, same as before. Well,” he pauses, considers it. “Logistically, all is the same. Content sounded different, if that matters.”

“We’ll get that evaluated later,” she replies with an approving nod. “Thanks. I know it’s risky, being out there.”

“You’re about to go out there, aren’t you?” he asks quietly, not really wanting to challenge her, but curious all the same.

“Sure.” She smiles and her white teeth flash. “But I have a few more battles under my belt than you, I would hope anyway.” 

“All done,” James interrupts her, looking up from the table. The previously grey blocks are now almost invisible, blending perfectly against the table.

“Sweet,” McKinnon comments with a smirk and pushes herself away from the wall. She shrugs off the jacket and pulls on a nondescript robe over her jeans, then reaches back into the jacket’s pockets for a vial. “Here’s to your levitation skills, Potter.” She chugs the vial’s contents and grimaces. “This stuff is vile.”

Her face shifts and phases even as the rest of her body stays roughly the same. They picked a girl who looked close enough to her height and build to avoid motor issues, although with her mocha skin and close-cropped black hair, she couldn’t otherwise look more different from Marlene. 

“Alright, go.”

James picks up his wand without comment, eyes narrowed as he focuses entirely on the suddenly levitated blocks. 

“Sure you don’t want to go one by one?” Peter pipes up before he can stop himself.

“I can do it,” James replied curtly, gaze fixed on his charges as they float out the window slowly. 

“Can you do it before Bagnold dies of old age, mate?” McKinnon starts pacing around the room. 

“If you two shut up, I stand a chance,” James retorts, rubbing his temples with his left hand. 

They are silent after that, hardly even daring to breathe until James lowers his wand and rolls his shoulders. 

“On three,” he says, locking eyes with McKinnon for a moment.

They count together, like they’ve all practised a thousand times. “One… two… three.”

James flicks his wand and McKinnon disapparates with a pop. A moment later, Knockturn Alley outside the window is bathed in bright green smoke. They hear screams, shouting, and the sound of a crowd rushing around, disoriented. James winks at Peter’s astonished face.

“Told you I could do it.” He picks up McKinnon’s jacket. “Let’s get out of here and meet her at headquarters.”

***

Remus really hopes this one’ll be the meeting where Dumbledore tells him to quit surveilling the werewolves and get back to working with Caradoc and James on whatever magical complexity Meadowes assigns them to work around. Somehow, he doubts his wish will be fulfilled. 

There’s a little side gate off the usual beaten path through which he enters the grounds, shivering a little in his threadbare coat and old wool scarf. It’s a chilly spring, this one, and the nights still freeze. He doesn’t love the cold, but he’s gotten used to it in his dingy flat, which never quite keeps out the chill no matter what charms he puts on it. Normally, he’d go for a walk across the grounds, for old times’ sake, but not tonight. He’s already late.

The gargoyle at the steps to the headmaster’s office is only just closing behind Professor McGonagall when he gets there, and she greets him with a tired smile.

“Mr Lupin, it’s good to see you. I do hope your meeting isn’t too long, it is - “ she checks her pocket watch, “rather late.”

He smiles wryly and shrugs. Even when she was his professor assigning them detentions, he always liked the woman. “Who can say? Good night, Professor. I hope the students now are a little less troubling for you than perhaps, at times - “

“I can assure you, you and your friends were quite special in that regard.” Somehow, he doesn’t get the sense she is entirely as disapproving of his friends’ antics as her stern expression would lead one to believe. “I’ll leave you to your meeting.”

With a nod, she brushes past him and he moves to face the gargoyle.

“Licorice liquor,” Remus enunciates as clearly as possible. The gargoyle moves to reveal the by now familiar winding marble staircase and with one glance over his shoulder, he moves past the statue and onto the moving staircase.

“Ah, Remus,” the headmaster’s warm voice greets him before he fully steps into the office. He’s long given up on figuring out the various magical contraptions set on tables along the walls of the circular room. With its high ceiling and scholastic atmosphere, the set-up of the office always makes Remus wonder if maybe the headmaster wasn’t in Ravenclaw after all. 

“Professor,” he greets the man behind the desk and moves to sit opposite him. The portraits are silent tonight, which is by itself not too unusual. Most of them seem to keep, or pretend to, an ordinary schedule of waking and sleeping hours.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Albus Dumbledore says with that enigmatic twinkle in his blue eyes that always makes Remus feel decidedly out of place. He forces himself not to fidget, gritting his teeth.

“I’m afraid I have little to report,” he admits, silently adding ‘and I don’t know why you keep making me come here to tell you.’

“That is to be expected, at this stage. It’s only been three - no, four full moons after all.” Still with that curious look in his eyes, Dumbledore shakes his head slightly. “Please forgive me, sometimes, I forget you and your friends are very young indeed.”

Remus decides to take that as a call for patience rather than the insult Sirius would have seen in it. Running a hand through his shaggy hair, he bites his lip and makes a decision.

He sits up straight and finally offers the proposal he’s been thinking on. “Sir, until I learn something of note, I could report to Mr Moody or Madam Meadowes. Less trouble, for both of us.” 

He doesn’t mention the reason they’ve been handling it differently so far, partly because he’s not sure he wants to know if Dumbledore has respected his confidence or not. 

Picking up on the cue, the headmaster doesn’t say anything about it either, although Remus supposes that’s enough of an answer. “That seems reasonable, though I’ll be sad to lose our monthly chats.” The sentiment sounds sincere enough, but if Remus is honest, it’s not reciprocated. He is grateful to the man, admires him, but it would be little more than a lie to claim he enjoyed spending time in his presence. “I’ll make sure they’re briefed.”

“Thank you.” He rises from the chair and steps away from the claw-footed desk. “Sir. If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer it was Moody.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore agrees with a nod, his expression unreadable. “I do hope you’ll be careful in these dangerous times, Remus. And keep an eye on those friends of yours as well.”

“Of course, sir.” He looks over his shoulder as he walks through the door. “Good night.”

***

“A phoenix, Meadowes? You really are full of surprises.” Marlene is genuinely awed for once. Phoenixes are very rare, ones staying with wizards even more so. The creature’s eyes are like bottomless pools of liquid gold, beautiful but also rather unsettling. They never leave her, she notes as she steps into the study. Despite the dark wood of the floor, the room is light and airy, the large windows offering a brilliant view of the surrounding countryside. 

Dorcas’ smile has a hint of pride and she holds out her hand toward the bird, receiving a slight nudge from the iridescent beak. “Phaos has been with my mother’s family for a few generations. I keep expecting her to take off, but so far… “

“Loyal bird,” Marlene comments with a smirk and drops into the chair facing the window, slightly uneasy at not having the creature in her line of sight.

Her host walks past the antique wooden desk and sits down opposite her in a pose that’s almost eerily similar to the one Marlene’s father usually adopts when dealing with official business. “So, I assume you’ve come with more than the intention to appraise the treasures of my childhood home?”

Marlene chuckles. “You take a long time to open up, love, and the place isn’t exactly hosting soirées every other week anymore. Can’t blame a girl for being curious.” Not receiving an answer, she decides not to push it. “In any case, yes, I do have some things to report about yesterday that I felt would best be discussed in person.”

Elegant eyebrows moving up a fraction of an inch, Dorcas looks more amused than concerned. “What are those?”

She sighs. “I managed to get a good look at all four of the corner guards. The kid was right about his cousin being one of them.”

The young woman opposite her is the very picture of composure, but Marlene doesn’t doubt that her news hits home. It would have to.

“Rodolphus was there as well, I expect?” Dorcas asks carefully, quietly.

Biting her lip, Marlene nods. She’s almost confident that her mother mentioned seeing Dorcas at the Lestrange wedding. The ring on the other girl’s hand catches her eye. It’s simple, a signet ring just like Marlene’s father wears. From the distance, the M could just as easily be for McKinnon. Or Malfoy, really. Lots of old houses start with M, distinguished only by the coat of arms etched around it in tiny swirls. 

“Rodolphus, and I think I saw Rabastan in the crowd.”

“Who were the other guards?” 

Changing the topic. Well, fair enough. “One chap that goes by Macnair, he’s had brushes with the law before, bit of a brute. He and Malcolm were in the same year, I think. He hasn’t improved.” She grimaces. “And old Avery.”

“He’s got some nerve,” Dorcas’ hands are clasped tightly, resting on the desk. 

“Really wouldn’t have guessed Avery would rattle you more than dear old Bella, truth be told.”

As Dorcas answers, her words appear to be each selected carefully, and forced into the sentences like soldiers in a regiment. “The news of Bella is… disturbing, to be sure. You’ll be well aware she’s an old friend. Our fathers were close during their Hogwarts years, and while I was always closest to Cissy on account of our age, I cared for all three of the sisters.” She pauses for a moment, leaving Andromeda’s name unspoken, but hanging in the air. “Nonetheless, whatever her choices, Bella is young and passionate and inexperienced. Not to mention, with her family, it’s a miracle not all their children are involved by now.”

Marlene wants to interject, point out that at least two of the current generation of the family have clearly chosen different paths, but she’s not sure it’s the best place for it.

“My point is that I believe Bella got into this for very commonplace reasons, and with a bit of work, I can get her out of it, too.”

Being more than casually acquainted with Bellatrix Black, Marlene doubts it. Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Dorcas smiles a little and lifts her hands in self-conscious defensiveness.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be foolish. It might well be impossible, and in any case, it’s not my role or priority. Avery, on the other hand,” her face turns dark, “he’s an adult. He has children, a wife he’d leave a widow if he died. He’s worked with Muggleborns all his life, he knows perfectly well there’s no truth to it all. I don’t understand it. Why would he throw his life away for it?”

“But you’ve known about it for over a year now, haven’t you?” The senior Auror’s firing and subsequent disappearance certainly made the news back when it happened.

“Yes, but there weren’t too many details. I didn’t really want to ask, thought he had just had too much Ogden’s and said some foolish things to the wrong person.”

“Oh darling, that’s… not quite it.” Sometimes Marlene forgets how little of the Auror Office’s internal affairs ever makes the Prophet. “He was using his position to help them avoid raids, cover things up. They finally got him when he got cocky and tried to disappear a witness.”

“Ah.” For the first time in the conversation, the pretty young heiress doesn’t seem to have an answer, and Marlene doesn’t think she can offer a satisfactory one, either.

“Well, the information is yours to do with as you think it best.” Probably nothing for the moment, if she knows anything about how Meadowes and Bones play the game. It’s a frustrating thing, but there’s a reason Meadowes was made section head over Marlene. She wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Do you think the other part of the plan was successful?”

“Making the rally less of a fun Saturday event for the bored elite?” Marlene grins. “That it did.”

***

January 1973

***

The first thing Remus realises when waking up is that the bone-chilling cold of the previous nights must have given him a fever. The second one, once he has opened his eyes, is that Madam Pompfrey has failed to enforce the no guests rule. Three blurry shapes slowly become clearer and dread settles into his bones. 

“I think he’s awake.”

“Really, Pete?” said Sirius drily. “The open eyes didn’t tip me off.”

“Shh, both of you.” James voice comes off more rushed than the others. “Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“Oh, quit being such a girl’s petticoat. If we’re right, the first thing it is is bloody wicked.”

“It does land him in the hospital wing at least once a month,” Peter offers weakly, but Sirius is clearly on a roll. 

“Anyway. Remus, all back from the dead, are you? Or rather the wolves?”

He doesn’t think it’s possible, but Remus feels the strong impulse to crawl back further into the pillows. Swallowing despite his burning throat, he nods. 

“In that case, we are now officially - “ Sirius sits down on his bedside, eyes expectant “ - allowed to nag you as to why you never told us. And why you lied.”

There are no wands in their hands, Remus realises, but he knows they may still have them. He chooses to comply for now - best not to make anyone angry, especially while he is still dizzy and defenseless. 

“I was scared.”

Sirius appears to be moving to say something dismissive, but he is interrupted - perhaps for the first time ever - by Peter, who has moved to sit on the other side of the bed, awkwardly cross-legged. 

“I get that.” At Sirius’ scoff, he appears a little flustered. “Look, it can’t be easy. You read the books yourself, there’s lots of people with all kinds of ideas. I’d definitely have been scared.”

“Mate, you’ve met my family.” Sirius turns back to look at Remus, who is still staring, wide-eyed, at Peter. The other boy is giving his best imitation of a reassuring smile, and although it comes out a little shaky, it is the most comforting thing Remus has ever seen. “They’re all a million times worse than turning into a wolf once a month, I assure you. Especially with the whole Whomping Willow thing.”

He can’t help the weak chuckle that escapes his mouth at that, but the skeptical look on James’ face brings him back to reality. “You don’t know - it’s… pretty bad. I’m sorry.” Remus isn’t super sure what he’s sorry for, but he hopes, hopes against hope really, that it can answer James’ concerns.

His friend’s hazel eyes are really more confused than hostile as he asks: “It is… handled, right?” 

With a small nod, he grasps the lifeline James is throwing him, the one where the two of them can just try very hard to ignore it. “Yeah, it is. The Headmaster, and Madam Pompfrey, worked it all out.”

“That’s fair.” James still looks a little unsure, but he’s attempting a smile as well, and sitting down next to Sirius as the boys enlighten him as to what their other theories were.

**Author's Note:**

> Any notes on characterisation are extremely welcome. Although I have my reasons for some things (e.g. the different reactions to Remus' furry little problem), others probably merit interrogating and adjusting for the rest of the story. Much love <3


End file.
